


it is a game,

by fuckingkinney



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Post-Season/Series 06, but they make out, but what else do you really expect from these two ???, not nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingkinney/pseuds/fuckingkinney
Summary: when you fall down the asoiaf/got rabbit hole and can't get back out. i've been writing petyr/sansa on my sansa tumblr for ages so i figured i should probably post something here.completely unbeta'd. written in about half an hour. feel free to point out any grammar mistakes, ect, but don't be a dick.feedback is my favourite thing, just fyi.





	

It feels like a game, both of them waiting to see who will be the first to crack… Only it has always been a game between them, hasn’t it? Nothing has ever been _simple_ and Sansa suspects that is why he insists on it continuing. She had been free, for a moment, within the walls of Winterfell with her brother at her side and the intention of finding Arya and Bran.

Then he had arrived, looking as put together as always, and a smirk still lingering on his features as his mouth spoke apologies that she did not believe. He had remained afterwards. Sansa couldn’t pretend to be surprised – when did he ever leave? Petyr had been there from the first day. She suspected he would be there until her last, if the Gods really did want to laugh at her misfortune.

Winter had arrived. Plans were changed. The fate of their siblings remained unknown, lost and presumed dead. Jon decided that they could not spare men yet, not with the impending battles that they had ahead of them. Petyr Baelish remained in Winterfell and Sansa pretended that she could not see him _lingering_. Everywhere she turned, there he was. No words were ever spoken, but he _smiled_ at her like he could hear her thoughts. Why hadn’t she insisted he leave?

She discovered the answer to that sooner than she would have liked, his mouth harsh and insistent against her own. A gasp rung out between the two of them, Sansa realising it was her own only after the fact, and she had dug fingers into greying hair and twisted it with a fire in her intentions. She wanted to make him _hurt_ , as he had done to her. She wanted him to ache and groan beneath her, no longer powerful. She wanted to remove the smug expression from his face – only once. Once and she could be _content_ with the knowing of what she had been able to do. She’d sunk her teeth against his bottom lip and the next noise made was from _him_. It made her feel like the one in control, watched as he pulled away with something close to awe on his face and his thumb dragging across the split she had created.

If Petyr intended to speak about it afterwards, Sansa hadn’t let him. She had turned away from him every time he approached, made sure that she had people surrounding her when he lingered. The only difference was that she no longer pretended not to realise when he stared, raised her gaze to connect with his and allowed herself to be the one to _smirk_.

* * *

A hand wraps around her throat and a shudder drags down her spine, head thrown back and a grin threatening to spread wider on her face. Her fingers only dig into the bare shoulders beneath her, wonders how long they will carry on like this. Neither of them are naked: Petyr has his shirt off, the laces of his breeches tugged open half way. The laces of her own dress are loosened against her back, but Sansa had slapped his hands away when he threatened to pull them open entirely. It wasn’t his decision to make. Petyr wasn’t the one in control.

Even as she rocks her hips down against him, illicites another gasp from herself and a noise startlingly close to a moan from the other, Sansa knows that she is the one in control. A hand covers his, finally looks down towards the man beneath her. She can feel the sting against her mouth, imagines she looks _obscene_ from below. She only rocks against him harder.

“Don’t talk,” she murmurs as he parts his lips to do so. It could be declarations of love, a demand that he needs more, or something else. Sansa doesn’t care. If he speaks, the illusion between them is shattered. Sansa will remember that she’s a girl, pushed aside for her bastard half-brother, unable to find the rest of her family.

If he speaks, she will remember all that he has done. She will remember when the feel of his mouth against her own, chaste and closed, confused her rather than excited her. She will remember that this is all a game. That for the longest time, Petyr was in control.

“Sansa—” He just has to, doesn’t he?

“Stop it,” and she no longer sounds so confident. Her movements come to a stop and a hand flexes across her throat. “You’re not in control here.”

The other covers her hip, squeezes harder than against her neck. Sansa wishes he would apply the pressure to both.

“I know,” Petyr could never just be silent, could he? He could never just accept what was given to him, always had to demand _more_.

She grips fingers in his hair again, pulls him up, _up_ , until he is sitting. Arranges them as she wants, smothers a noise against his mouth as she kisses him. Sansa wants him pliant. She wants him weak – only that’s not what she wants, when she really thinks about it. She just wants him to be _hers_.

“I don’t love you,” she murmurs against his mouth, because he may be obsessed with red hair and a woman that turned out to be everything her mother hadn’t, but she doesn’t have to feel the same way.

She knows he wants to tell her that she’s wrong. _You do love me_ , he would tell her if she allowed him to, _I know you love me_. That’s why he’s still there. That’s why she allowed him to touch her, why she kissed him back and sobbed against his mouth the first time this happened.

“I know,” he responds, because he knows that is all that can be said.

Sansa grins before she can stop herself and fingers drop from his hair to cradle his jaw with something mocking affection as she kisses him again.

Petyr may be hers, but she is under no obligation to return the favour.

It’s still a game between the two of them, something Sansa suspects will never change… The only difference is that Petyr is no longer the one in control.

**Author's Note:**

> when you fall down the asoiaf/got rabbit hole and can't get back out. i've been writing petyr/sansa on my sansa tumblr for ages so i figured i should probably post something here.  
> completely unbeta'd. written in about half an hour. feel free to point out any grammar mistakes, ect, but don't be a dick.  
> feedback is my favourite thing, just fyi.


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